Handle with Care
by izzygone
Summary: Sometimes Spock found himself in his Captain's room, gently holding (and occasionally stroking) Kirk's possessions.
1. Handle with Care

A/N: Okay so a) please ignore that rather than writing the final chapters of Quarantine, I've instead branched out into another fandom, b) I might write a second chapter of this, idk, c) I'm not in the Star Trek fandom_ per se,_ I've never watched the original series, so forgive me for not possessing much knowledge outside the new movies and d) this wasn't beta'd (I know you're shocked haha)

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Sometimes Spock, first officer of the starship Enterprise, half-Vulcan, half-human, graduate of Starfleet Academy, proud advocate of all things logical, found himself in his Captain's room, gently holding (and occasionally stroking) Kirk's possessions. Spock had a flawless photographic memory, and he knew in one sweep of the room exactly which items the captain had moved that day, exactly which ones he used. Spock touched these items first.

For months, Spock tried to reason out why he did this – sneaking into the Captain's room via their shared bathroom, handling his things with an odd sense of possessiveness and desire to continue touching. After considering the why of it and, to his surprise, attempting to justify his actions as logical, he finally gave up and determined it was, in fact, no matter what way you put it, illogical. So he resolved to stop.

Yet still he found himself sneaking in at every chance when the captain was away, visiting Bones in medical, chasing a skirt, or imbibing illegal-in-most-star-systems alcoholic beverages with Montgomery Scott in his quarters. The moment the captain exited his room, there was Spock lifting his dirty command golds from where Kirk abandoned them floor. Cold to Spock's touch, but still warm enough to know this was the shirt Kirk wore today on the bridge. The one he wore when he told that joke Spock did not comprehend but made even Sulu chuckle. The one he wore as he promised Spock he wouldn't get them into any trouble on the planetoid below them. The one he wore as he bounded away in excited terror as the natives turned out, as Spock accurately predicted, to be hostile toward the diverse crew of the Enterprise. The one he wore when he grabbed Spock's hand and tugged him behind a rock, hiding them as the natives rushed past. The one he wore, body pressed hard against Spock, breathing heavily though his body was perfectly formed for running great distances at high speed, and whispered deadly sweet into the half-Vulcan's ear: _I think we lost them_. Spock could still feel the twitch of Kirk's lips, the half smirk of victory.

Without realizing it, Spock had increased his grip on the shirt. Within his strong hands, the shirt had torn, one finger slipping through the hole he accidently created. A green flush of embarrassment spread through him. This is what he had come to, ripping his friend's shirts in an effort to be closer to things that had touched him.

And now Spock did not know what to do; he could not return the shirt to its position on the floor, Jim would surely notice the hole through one of his previously perfectly maintained shirts. But neither could Spock remove it, as the Captain was equally likely to notice it missing.

Perhaps if Spock were of another species, he would have stretched his mind further to determine further solutions for this problem. But instead, after playing out each scenario, he decided to confess. Perhaps the shame and embarrassment of his safely guarded secret coming to light would finally be enough to end his illogical obsession with the Captain's possessions.

He retreated, then, to his room, unready to be caught. He carried the torn shirt with him, gripping it fiercely as if, well, if he was going to go down, he was going to get some pleasure from it. Though how he derived pleasure from stroking a shirt, he could not express.

The Vulcan sense of smell is not overly strong, but Spock held the captain's shirt to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelled of Kirk's pheromones, sweat and the distinct scent of the cologne Spock had helped him pick out, the only one the first officer could tolerate. It was, for a moment, as if Kirk filled him. Without another thought, Spock slipped out of his own uniform and into that of his captain. Now he felt filled and surrounded by Jim.

He felt odd, out of place, in a uniform of gold. And it didn't fit him properly, hanging too short just barely to the hinge of his waist and loosely where Kirk was solid and heavy muscle and Spock was long and lean. But it was soft and drenched in the scent of the captain and somehow that felt just right. Spock traced the hole at the side of the uniform, where his fingertips had breached the seam. He imagined it on Jim's body, being able to find skin through the tiny entrance.

Perhaps Spock could repair it before Jim returned.

But no, he didn't even want to. It was time for him to confess. And, quite honestly (for a Vulcan cannot lie, not even, apparently, to himself), he couldn't imagine taking this shirt off for any reason other than the shame of it.

It was illogical, his need to feel the shirt. He ran his hands across it, over his chest, down to the sensitive skin of his abdomen. He imagined doing that to Kirk.

Then he imagined Kirk doing that to him.

He stopped.

Illogical.

He prodded his mind for a meaning behind the strange desire to touch. This shirt belonged to Jim. That made him feel... pleasant. This shirt had been on Jim's body under an hour prior. That made him feel... hot and... tingly. Similar in many ways to the way his body reacted when Nyota caressed his erogenous zones.

The emotional response this shirt invoked in him was beyond illogical, it was _impractical_. It was one matter to feel lust for a female - where at least there was some chance of reproduction as an outcome - but entirely another to feel it for male who completely lacked the biological compatibility. Between them, they could not create offspring.

And yet...

The desire for such an encounter did not decrease.

His breath hitched as his hand, heedless of his mind's commands, continued its plodding, exploratory caresses over the silky smoothness of the shirt and down further, gliding over the steadily growing bulge in his regulation pants.

The human half of his brain readily supplied images of Captain Kirk doing this to him, stroking him slowly to hardness, teasingly unclasping the uniform, sliding his hand underneath, brushing his fingers over regulation briefs and then under so it was nothing but skin against skin and touching and gentle strokes making Spock pant, almost beg for it -

But his Vulcan mind fought it, shouted at him,_ illogical, irrational, immoral_, and Spock groaned aloud. He could not make the choice - he knew, _knew_ what he was doing - masturbating to _images of his own Captain_ - was not okay. It was perverse, nonsensical and emotionally driven. Yet. The movements of his hand over his now fully erect cock had not slowed but instead increased in speed and his cognitive functioning was diminishing, and an overwhelming need was taking over the reasonable portion of his mind. He growled, tugging harder at his cock and worrying at the hole in the side of Kirk's shirt, unable to think of anything except Jim's hands, his mouth, the tightness of his Starfleet-issued trousers. He became rapidly irritated with himself for even thinking such things - Jim on the floor, Jim's mouth open, begging Spock to just shove in - but he couldn't stop. Everything smelt of Jim, felt of Jim and it fogged his mind as he raced closer, thumbing over the slit of his cock - something Uhura never did, but Jim would, Jim would just know how Spock liked it - being a bit too rough with himself as he burned with shame and wanted, just wanted to reach completion because it felt so good but it hurt him, hurt his mind that he couldn't control himself, that he couldn't reason out these desires, couldn't master his lust.

He pulled at the shirt, tugging it up so it covered the bottom of his face, smothering his month and covering his nose so he was breathing it in, breathing Kirk in. And fuck, Kirk and the smell of sweat and sex and _Jim_ surrounded him, and he was thrusting now, involuntarily seeking out more, more, more wishing it was Jim's hand he was thrusting into, wishing he wasn't so fucking weak but he was close now, so close and he couldn't stop it, even if he wanted to but he was this far now and there wasn't anything left of him, any sanity left in his lust-addled brain. One abruptly harsh thrust simultaneous with a perfectly timed twist and the image of Jim licking his lips, and Spock came with a sob, hot liquid spurting over his hand as he stroked himself through it, tiny dots of come splashing onto Kirk's now ripped and sweat-slick officer's uniform.

Laying there in a pool of his own come, wanting only to relive his fantasies from moments earlier, Spock knew he was fucked.


	2. To Catch a Thief

_A/N: Apologies, this took longer than I expected to complete. I had (many) requests for a second chapter so... enjoy!_

James T. Kirk returned to his quarters early that night. He'd delayed meeting up with Bones and Scotty to discuss the day's mission (unsuccessful - crazy and fun as hell, but still unsuccessful) with his first officer, which he didn't regret for a moment, but by the time he got down to Scotty's quarters, both he and Bones were several pints of Scotty's own "version" of bloodwine in. Before Kirk had his chance to catch up, he was sitting around with two men who were ready to pass out. In fact, when he departed, Bones was already drooling in his chair.

Which by no means meant Jim was entirely somber himself.

Still, he managed to reach his quarters unsupervised and without any embarrassing communicator transmissions to Spock, _thank you very much._ His first (drunk) instinct upon reaching his room was to bang on his first officer's door, just to irritate the Vulcan (which made for _two_ temptations he resisted today, the first being the temptation to nibble on Spock's earlobe during their earlier mission, for which he deserved a goddamn commendation) and his second instinct to fall flat into bed, admitting the night was a defeat. But, as he entered the room, he noticed that something was _off_. Nothing was obviously out of place, it didn't look _searched_ per se, but it didn't look the same as he'd left it, either. He got this feeling somewhat frequently - the gut instinct that someone had been there, that things had been touched - but he never found any evidence to back up the feeling.

Until now.

There, in the middle of the chamber, were the same standard-issue black pants he'd worn all day.

And nothing else.

Now, he wasn't currently wearing the same shirt from that day, he might be kind of tipsy, but he knew that much. That shirt was sweaty and too formal to wear down to Scotty's, he wasn't going to the goddamn bridge. Of course, he wasn't the tidiest guy when he was tired (which he definitely had been after a day like today), and if he left his pants on the floor, he'd definitely left his shirt, too.

But there it was, plain and obvious, only half his uniform left crumbled on the floor.

He swallowed hard and turned cautiously around. He saw no one. So who...?

He stumbled then to the nearby entrance to the shared bathroom of the suit. He was leaning against the door to Spock's side, ready to press in and question the Vulcan before he thought, _wait, what?_

Okay so his shirt had gone missing. Was Spock really the obvious candidate? Yeah, so the guy was his suitmate. The only one who really had unrestricted access to his rooms. But, well, it was a _shirt_. And Spock didn't seem like the type to borrow without asking, ya know?

So Jim turned around, shaking his head. He must have misplaced it, thrown it across the room in his race to _start drinking right now if not sooner thanks_. He retreated, swearing to resolve this mystery _before_ collapsing into bed.

Because if his first officer _did_ steal his uniform golds, well, that was a discussion he needed to face before he reached the _closer to sobriety_ end of his drinking spectrum.

He circled the room. He checked his dirty linen. He checked his _clean_ linen. He knew the exact shirt - it was threadbare at the sides, extra soft, extra comfortable. It was the first shirt he received after his hasty promotion. It needed repair but damn if he wasn't going to wear it until it gave out.

And it was missing.

Now, no one but he, Spock and Bones had his access codes. This was the goddamn _captain's_ quarters, safest area of the damn ship. Yet...

His uniform shirt was missing.

He ran through a dozen scenarios.

They all led to his first officer.

But... why? Spock sported his science blues damn near every day, and the guy was like, half Kirk's size at the waist. What could he possibly need Jim's shirt for? Unless he was planning to... repair it?

No, that was pretty illogical, not exactly Spock's style. He couldn't have been tidying (which he used to do before Jim made it pretty clear he didn't like coming home to find his socks indexed) because he'd left more than half a mess behind.

Well. There was nothing left to do but just... ask about it.

So there he was, James T. Kirk, captain of the newly rechristened Enterprise, touching his forehead against the glass pane leading to his best friend's quarters - unable to move forward. Why was he so fucking nervous? It's not like Spock would attack him just for asking (though, he reminded himself, the Vulcan did possess strength beyond his own, as proven by the _several_ times Spock held him down - Jim's cock stirred and he dismissed the thought hastily). Even if he was wrong about his first officer taking his uniform (and he wasn't wrong, there were no other options - Spock would see that it was only logical, right?), it was hardly an accusation to get angry over anyway.

Kirk leaned heavily against the door and sighed. Finally, without letting himself overanalyze a moment more, he tapped the code into the access pad and the door slid open.

He nearly fell forward but righted himself quickly, "Spock, listen this might sound a little weird but -"

He expected to directly meet his first officer's deep brown eyes, but the Vulcan wasn't seated as he normally was at the desk nearby. Was it later than Kirk thought? He darted his eyes left toward the bed and -

_Holy crap- what was even? how WHat no way_ - Jim's mind went entirely blank because there was his first officer, passed out on his bed, trousers undone, wearing Jim Kirk's _gold shirt._

Jim swallowed. Closed his eyes.

Nope.

This was not real. There was no friggin way this was real.

His eyes flickered open then immediately shut - yup, he was losing his mind. He was drunker than he thought. Because what he saw was still there - Spock splayed out, Jim's gold shirt hiked up, though really it was just too short for the tall, lean Vulcan, revealing his pale but firm abdomen.

As a young, definitely more-than-decent-looking, fertile male, he'd seen (and fantasized) a lot of things. But none, _none_ were as tempting and perfect as this vision.

And there was a 0.0% chance this was real.

He reopened his eyes and shut his mouth with a click, realizing his was gaping.

Oh, if this wasn't real, he definitely didn't want to get off whatever drug he'd ingested. He wanted to ride this roller coaster to the end and then ride it again because, _damn_, he could get used to this.

Licking his lips, he approached silently. He had been tipsy before, but now he felt about 30 whiskeys in. His whole mind clouded with lust as all blood rushed south. He went from "_wouldn't it be nice to fantasy about Spock tonight as I rub one out lying in bed tonight?_" to "_so hard, must touch, gimme_" in about 1.2 nanoseconds. About 2 feet from the bed, his knees gave out. Spock stirred at the sound of Jim's knees hitting the floor, but he didn't wake.

Sliding forward, nearly crippled by lust, Jim stuttered out, "Sp-ock."

The vulcan's eyes flew open and he sat straight up so quickly, it made Kirk dizzy on his behalf.

"Captain." He replied curtly, all sleepiness wiped from his eyes in a single blink.

Jim almost growled. _Captain_. Fuck.

"You're wearing my shirt." He tried to steady his voice, but he was pretty sure the lust shone through like a star going supernova.

Spock swallowed but did not speak. Vulcans cannot lie, but, better than any other species, they can withhold the truth.

He looked positively _wrecked_, hair disheveled and shiny with lingering sweat and _fuck_, was that come on the edges of his shirt? More than anything he'd ever wanted in the world, Kirk wanted what he had in front of him _right now_. "That's my favorite shirt, Spock." Somehow that time he sounded smooth. More like himself, teasing.

"Captain, I must apologize for my behavior -"

Kirk held up a hand to silence the half-Vulcan, "Strip." His first officer remained perfectly still except to arch one of his trademark eyebrows in curiousity. "That was an order, lieutenant."

And that was enough. Spock stood and removed his regulation trousers in a movement so swift, it was as if they'd never been there at all. His hands hesitated, though, at the hem of the gold uniform.

"Leave the shirt on." Kirk said quickly, still on his knees and unwilling or unable to lift himself. He watched intently, following every flickering movement of Spock's fingers as he deftly and without flare tugged off his socks and his briefs joined the black pile formally known as Spock's pants on the floor.

If Spock felt any embarrassment from stripping before his captain, it certainly wasn't obvious by the way his cock stood, more than half erect and definitely not uninterested.

It made Kirk's mouth water.

"On the bed," Jim spoke quietly, casually, declaring it an order completely unnecessary.

Jim wasn't a narcissist, but seeing his first officer completely wrecked and already looking completely _owned_ in his own goddamn shirt before they've even _touched_, was so fucking perfect he almost came in his pants.

Okay, maybe Jim was a narcissist.

Spock lay across his bed, Jim's uniform golds the only thing to cover him and it was obvious they were tearing at the sides and only came down to his middrift anyway, and he was flushed _everywhere_ with a greenish hue. His face, his pale abdominal muscles, his hard cock. Jim moved himself, finally, situating himself between Spock's uncovered legs. The Vulcan breathed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gasped. And Jim wanted to plunge right in.

But first he had to ask, "Spock. You've stolen my shirt, and I'm going to have to punish you for it." Spock's whole body shuddered. Well, that wasn't a no, "Okay?"

Finally, the Vulcan spoke, "I accept whatever punishment you feel appropriate, captain."

Well, _fuck_, Kirk had to physically calm himself because nothing sounded hotter than his first officer calling him _captain_ whilst naked and writhing. In fact, Jim didn't think he'd ever hear Spock call him that without getting hard again. Work tomorrow morning was going to be a bitch.

Consent given, Kirk leaned over and, without another world, engulfed as much of Spock's rapidly-hardening, slightly-greenish cock as he could fit in his mouth in a single motion, deftly moving his arm across Spock's hips, holding him in place as he jerked against the sensation. The Vulcan sputtered out a groan and Jim relished the first, maybe only (god, please not the only), time he'd ever witnessed his friend truly out of control.

Spock's hands came automatically to rest against the back of Kirk's head, carding his long thin fingers through his cropped hair, whispering breathily, "_Jim_."

Without lifting himself fully away from the task at hand, Kirk grunted, "Did I give you permission to speak?" He didn't need to look up to feel Spock shaking his head no, and Jim returned to his task.

Beneath him, Spock was flushed even more green, darker green at his cock and balls but spreading from there to every inch of skin Kirk could see, a pale hue of green surfacing - not that Kirk had a single problem whatsoever with green body parts - and hot, still cooler than Kirk, but still the hottest he'd ever noticed Spock (whose skin was, by nature, colder than a human's) to be. And Spock was _responsive_, god, so fucking hot and wanting and trying so hard not to buck against Kirk's eager mouth yet still fighting the restraint of Kirk's hard heavy over his hips.

Kirk formed a seal with his lips and began bobbing up, dragging his lips up over the ridge at the head, pulling a barely restrained moan from the Vulcan below him, and back down, pressing his tongue hard against the pulsing vein along the bottom of Spock's cock, earning him an aborted jerk of Spock's hips. In his drunken state, Kirk couldn't help but smile and his blow job was rapidly turning messy and inaccurate in his desperation to taste all of Spock's skin, his slightly-sweet precome, the texture of cock hardening fully in his mouth, _fuck_, the slick wet sounds as he swirled his tongue simultaneously moving up and down and relishing the roughness of Spock gripping his short hair. Saliva and precome dribbled down his chin, but he couldn't be fuck all bothered to care that he was a total wreck and his own cock was throbbing and aching, _dying_ for touch. For fucksake, he was still completely dressed and Spock might as well have been fucking _naked_ except his shirt, Kirk's shirt, looked so goddamn perfect like it was meant for Spock to debauch it.

Down his chin, saliva was dripping onto Spock's flushed dark green balls and Kirk tentatively fondled them, wondering if that did for the Vulcan what it did for a human - Spock moaned, thrust gently into Jim's open mouth, and Kirk almost laughed - yup, he liked that just the same, too.

Jim was drunk and maybe he was feeling a little too daring after the successful ball fondling experiment, but pretty quickly he was coating a single finger with his own saliva and worming it down, snaking over Spock's perinum and then gently, lightly just barely circling against - "Captain!" Spock nearly shouted and half sat up before collapsing, and Kirk paused his motion, lifting his head.

"Not good?" He wrapped his hand around Spock's still full and ready cock, his brush with potential anal penetration notwithstanding, and stroked gently to soothe his first officer. He flicked his thumb over the slit which earned a definitely-not-unappreciative moan.

Spock met Kirk's eyes, shaking his head, "No, good, yes, very good, don't" - he huffed, what was wrong with him, why couldn't he catch his breath? - "Don't stop, _please._"

And that just about did it for Kirk. He counted slowly backward from ten to back himself off the edge, then leaned back down between the commander's legs, smirking as he spread them further, lifting Spock's knees to expose his clenched, saliva glistening hole. Kirk sucked in a breath. _Yum._

Slicking one finger again with spit, Jim ran it again over Spock's puckered hole. Better prepared this time, the officer didn't buck against him but instead grinded down against him, _fuck_, _so goddamn eager_ and Kirk wanted to just push right in, but for all he knew, this was Spock's first time and he deserved something better than that. He licked his lips in concentration as he pressed the digit in, achingly slow like he had a death wish but he still wanted to draw it out real slow. Spock moaned, his hips twitched, a silent plea: more. Which Kirk was happy to give him, but fuck, he was hot, so tight, the little ring of muscle compulsing around his finger so achingly perfect... fuck. He teased the rim, and Spock whimpered, he looked ready to speak but at the same time so wrecked, Jim didn't think he'd get a word out. Christ, they were only on his first finger.

It didn't seem right to him to do this like this, his first time with Spock using just saliva and sweat for lubrication, and he knew he'd have to go back to his room to get something more effective, but the idea of leaving Spock like this... for even one second no having the vision of Spock, sweat covered, desperate and needy below him... fuck. He didn't need the lube right this goddamn second.

So he continued to press in, sliding back in and out to help loosen the muscle - for being such a tight ass on the bridge, Spock sure knew how to relax when Kirk was trying to get in it - searching for the spot- hmm. Kirk frowned. He didn't actually know that much about Vulcan anatomy, "Anything I should know down here, commander?"

Spock blinked down at his captain sprawled between his legs, the finger teasing his sphincters not relenting, "I assure you, captain, in this aspect, I am entirely human."

Kirk grinned, _entirely human_, wasn't that obvious from the way Spock moaned wantonly when he curled his finger, finally rubbing the half-Vulcan's prostate. Kirk even heard him swear. "Like that do you?" Spock bit his lip and nodded, so Kirk did it again, desperate to shove another finger into the man below him, "There's still so much to come, so buckle up." Without warning he pulled his finger out - it was definitely, _definitely_ time for lube - and Spock whimpered.

"Captain -"

Kirk silenced him with a single motion of his hand, "I need something from my room. Stay right where you are."

Spock nodded, but was already squirming, his neglected cock bobbing distractingly and Kirk definitely did not want to be away for a second longer than necessary, so he rushed back through the bathroom and into his chambers, so quickly he thought he'd trip over his own limbs. He was still fully clothed and the weight of it was oppressive. He wanted to strip right then and there, but knew it would be better if he waited to do that for Spock's benefit.

Curse his messy habits, where the fuck was that lube? Through the bathroom door, he heard a deep sigh and a lengthy moan. _Fuck._ Lube. Not in his left side drawer... right! He'd taken it into bed with him last night, slicking his hand to jerk off to this _exact fucking thing_. Shuffling the blankets, where, where.. there! He snatched it up like it was medicine that might save his dying friend. Which was pretty much the case. Except in this case, his friend was his own cock.

He bounded back through the room in his typical athletic manner but skidded to a fucking halt as he entered to find Spock had _not quite followed orders_. He'd stay where he was, but now had a hand between his legs, two long Vulcan fingers pressing into his hole which Jim had only recently vacated, stroking his long cock with the other hand, milking out bead after bead of precome.

Well, fuck.

And Spock had the audacity to look sheepish - a little embarrassed by getting caught, fingers up his own ass, desperate to be touched. He blushed, a deeper green filling his cheeks, half-lidded eyes meeting Jim's as he bit his lip in shame.

Kirk was out of his uniform in approximately 1.5 seconds.

"Move." Jim said, his voice so deep and low, like it came from his fucking spine.

To his credit, Spock only hesitated a millisecond, but Jim knew from that how desperate his friend was not to be empty. Back between his commander's knees, Kirk looked up, inspecting the Vulcan's wanton hole, twitching and desperate for something to fill it. And who was he to ignore that?

Taking the lube, which he had miraculously not dropped in his race to remove all his clothing, he slicked up two fingers. Pressing them in, he watched his best friend's face. Spock's eyes were closed, his mouth agape, neck stretched out, his Adam's apple bobbing with each labored swallow, his hands reaching out to find purchase on the sheets.

And _fuck_, Spock was so goddamn loose now, the walls of his channel shuddered against Jim's fingers as he pressed in - without even thinking he added a third finger. Spock took that like a champ, too, and Kirk wanted, no, _fuck_, needed, he _needed_ more and his own cock was so goddamn neglected and throbbing and leaking. He needed to be inside Spock like _yesterday._

He looked up again, and Spock's deep brown eyes met his: _yes_.

Reluctantly, Jim pulled back his fingers, and Spock sighed, obviously holding in a plea and trying to be patient.

No one would ever believe there was a day when Spock couldn't be patient.

As Kirk lubed his cock, he swallowed heavily, staring into his first officer's eyes. Spock didn't blink, just stared back with unconcealed lust. _Damn_, that was hot.

They locked eyes as Kirk positioned himself, Spock using his hands to hold open his own legs without being asked. Without further permission requested - or needed - Kirk pushed his way in, never breaking eye contact as he inched in, Spock's hole opening up for him like it was made for this.

Finally, he bottomed out and he broke eye contact as he was overwhelmed by the sensation, almost falling forward onto Spock's chest. He reopened his eyes, Spock met his gaze without hesitation. They stayed like this for a few moments, as Kirk felt his entire body was on fire. He wanted to move, thrust in and out deeply, milk himself into Spock's body, but the heat was too much and if he moved now, he'd come apart in seconds.

"I will not break, captain."

Kirk could have swatted him, cheeky bastard, "I just... need a second." He replied instead, taking in deep breaths as Spock flexed his muscles around Jim's cock. For someone 'entirely human in this aspect,' Spock had incredible control.

Putting his hand against his captain's face, Spock asked quietly, "May I?"

Kirk was hesitant with Spock's fingers near the meld points, was he ready to let his best friend see just how desperately he'd always wanted this? How afraid he was now that this was a one-off? But he nodded. You would be hard pressed to find Jim refusing Spock anything.

The moment Spock's fingers touched, a cool, calming light touched Jim's mind, and he began to move. The light changed and transformed into eyes, his own blue eyes, the way Spock was seeing them now, so filled with lust and fear and he could feel Spock's own lust, it sprayed back onto him, coloring his vision red. The desire between them rolled over him like a cool wave and he canted his hips back and forth to the rhythm Spock's mind provided. Spock met each thrust, his body slick and welcoming. He could feel rather than see Spock gripping his hips, encouraging him to move which he did now, eagerly. He felt as if Spock was holding him up, but how could he be when his one hand was against the meld points on his face –

Except his hand wasn't on the meld points, it was trailing down his body, rubbing over his nipples and making him keen, it was gripping his buttocks, pulling him in harder, rougher, leaving a hand-shaped bruise there. But where did Spock get so many hands? Below him, Spock sported a bemused smile.

Oh, right, the mind meld. He was feeling what Spock was thinking.

Well, two could play that game. In his mind, Jim reached down and touched Spock's throbbing cock between them, stroking it to match the rhythm of their bodies, he flicked a thumb over the slit, collecting Spock's precome and bringing it to his mouth to taste, in his mind he leaned down and nibbled on Spock's ear – the Vulcan moaned aloud – kissed down his neck, trailed faint bruises down his neck. He imagined pulling Spock apart, piece by piece, taking his time, exploring every potential pleasure center on his body – his nipples, his inner thighs, the back of his neck – he ran his imaginary hand followed by his imaginary mouth over each part. In a flash of inspiration, he imagined putting his tongue where his cock was now, thrusting in and out wetly, being able to taste himself inside Spock. He imagined sliding a finger in next to his cock, stretching Spock wider, testing his limits and Spock in his mind and in reality, right below him both moaned and arch their backs.

The combination of the mind meld – both of them fighting for power, desperate to show the other all of their fantasies – and the physical sensation and _oh my god is this real_ of what they were actually doing overwhelmed Kirk as he thrust harder, deeper, pressing up to hit Spock's sweet spot as he pulled out then grazing back over it as he canted back in. And Spock was pressing into him, how they managed to do both mind meld and physical was beyond either of their comprehension, and finally Jim, real Jim in the physical world - though it was a bit difficult to differentiate between the two – reached a real hand down between them, grabbing his best friend's cock pressed between them, the sensation of actual touch almost _too_ much for him to comprehend and began pumping roughly. Spock moaned, his mind melting from clearer images back to just colors sensations, heat and textures. And Kirk felt it all, felt as if it were his own cock being stroked, and he knew Spock, too, felt his pleasure, and they were combining into one tangled, tightly wound ball of heat and pleasure and _oh yes right there_ until they couldn't untangle themselves. Kirk felt orgasm approaching – his or Spock's or both? – and before he had time to process it, they were coming apart in a blinding white-hot spiral, like falling on earth's moon – slowly but inevitably.

Jim was dimly aware of Spock's release pouring over his hand as he emptied himself into Spock's body, but he didn't actually recognize the sensation of it until he had already collapsed onto Spock's folded body. His flaccid cock slipped reluctantly from Spock's gaping hole, which convulsed still as if trying to hold him in, but he didn't feel any less connected. Spock was still wearing his shirt, looking totally and completely owned, he mused, and Spock expressed through their bond a general disapproval (but not dislike) at Kirk's possessiveness.

Spock's fingers were definitely no longer on Jim's meld points, but it felt just the same. Jim wondered if it would feel like this every time they touched now, if they could communicate like this forever. Could be handy on the bridge. _Or if he got them into trouble on a mission again_. Now, Kirk definitely didn't think that himself. Ah, yes, Spock was still with him.

Well, wasn't that a blessing and a curse.


End file.
